


Apocalyptic Troubles, Baby!

by BumbleBeetle



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angel Family, Angel/Human Relationships, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Archangel Angst, Archangel Twins, Archangels, BAMF Gabriel, Brotherly Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, Protective Michael, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Reader-Insert, Sarcasm, Snark, Threats, Twins, Violence, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BumbleBeetle/pseuds/BumbleBeetle
Summary: Of age, and no longer a child, desperate to escape a city disguised as a gilded cage, you risk ventures beyond the walls. Lions are not to be kept in chains.What happens when the mischief-maker attracts very real trouble? Trouble that's lead not by cutthroat politicians or disorderly military, but something far sinister...





	1. To Hold a Wolf By The Ears

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE NOT GIVEN PERMISSION TO ANY PLATFORM OTHER THAN ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN TO HOST MY WORK. IF THIS WORK IS FOUND ON ANY OUTSIDE THIRD-PARTY APP THEN THEY HAVE STOLEN MY WORK AND ARE USING IT TO PROFIT WITHOUT MY CONSENT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you don't show up to William's chapel service, Michael senses something is amiss.

With the thunderous crack of concrete, Michael landed in a dingy parking lot miles from any of the settlements in the Cradle, a group of eight-balls scattering. Before leaving Vega, William had noticed y/n's disappearance in the face of the service he'd planned - which wasn't all that unusual - and mentioned this to Sergeant Lannon, who then relayed this nugget of information to the archangel. The angel had tracked you to this location, further convinced you'd come across trouble when he'd discovered the remains of a stolen, olive-shaded truck belonging to the Archangel Corps.

His blue eyes narrowed, withdrawing his swords from his coat, becoming a whirlwind of metal and feathers. Red misted the air, turned burnt orange by the setting sun. Convulsions and wet gurgling followed, many sightless eyes staring into a darkening, multicolored sky. A scream shattered his concentration, spying two possessed dragging an injured, bloodied y/n towards the back of a shipping truck. In a single fluid motion, he threw shards of glass from a shattered windshield, spearing several through their necks. With horrible shrieks in broken lishepus, the rest swarmed towards him, a wave of bodies so thick no light could be seen.

"Michael! Michael, no!" You cried, watching helplessly as the angel was dogpiled from all sides. _If you hadn't snuck out of Vega, this wouldn't have happened!_ Tears streamed down your cheeks, twisting against your bonds, crying until your voice was hoarse. Minutes passed, feeling like an eternity, your heart sinking as it seemed Michael had been done in by sheer numbers.  
"Shut it!" Their leader barked, whipping you across your temple with the butt of his weapon. Signalling for another to shove your unconscious body into the bed, he gave the scene a once-over. The humid air reeked of rot and copper, eviscerated flesh dotting the landscape, a gory reminder of just how deadly archangels could be.

* * *

Vultures and other carrion-birds circled overhead, casting long shadows. The landscape transformed as dusk faded, bruised and blackened, Vegas' lights like a ship on the horizon. Crows called their brethren near, landing on bodies strewn about. One hopped close, head tilting and flapping nervously. Spooked by movement, it flew off.

Sleek black feathers burst from a pile of corpses, their owner struggling to climb free. Michael rose, covered in dirt and blood with vengeful fury etched into his features. His anger was short-lived, breaking out in a fit of coughing, smoke clouding the air. Squinting, he could just make out a figure reclining across weed-knotted tires, tossing an apple between their hands.

"Gabriel."

His other half paused, catching the fruit to take a hearty bite, juice dribbling down his stubbled chin. "Took you long enough," he mused, chewing thoughtfully between words. "They've taken your lover captive. For what nefarious purpose, I haven't a clue."

"I'm aware." Michael replied tersely, wiping dried blood from his cheek onto his coat sleeve. His swords hissed as he slid them back in his belt, both stuck in shallow dirt nearby. Gabriel gave him a sharp, mischevious smile, throwing the core over his shoulder. "You don't sound concerned."  
With his arms folded, the dark-haired angel gave his twin a serious, scathing look. "Since Father abandoned us, I realized that no amount of training with Alex, combat or otherwise, was going to fill the yawning emptiness in my chest. While spending time with y/n, I noticed the way they cared, the way they loved and brought smiles to the faces of others...it was like I had been made whole again."

Brushing grasses from his pants as he stood, Gabriel's expression shifted to soured disdain. "And you're pouring your feelings out to me because—? Ah, I see. The great and powerful archangel Michael needs _my_ help now, does he?"

Michael exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes slipping closed. His jaw clenched. Staying his hand with his sibling would prove harder than he'd thought. "Will you go with me?"

Fingers tapping the end of the hilt hanging from his belt, Gabriel considered his brother's proposition. _Fighting on the same side, just to rescue a fancied bed-sharer? Could he really look past the jealousy and scorn he had for humanity to help?_  
Unleashing their wrath on the weaker angels sounded far better. He was no stranger to bloodshed and violence, recalling snippets of Sodom and Gomorrah. _Having a little fun wouldn't hurt, and maybe he'd even take their heads back to the eyrie. Putt them off the side of the mountain to smooth jazz._  
"Will that be as my ally?" He quipped, sliding a hip flask from his belt for a swig. His gaze cut to the other man, drink burning as it went down. "Or enemy?"  
Knocking the container from his brother's hand, Michael withdrew his blade to press it against Gabriel's throat. One set of blue eyes widened, hands half-raised with palms facing out. The other set turned hard, expression darkening. Michael's wings unfurled, arched and ready to strike if need be. "If you harm, or even _think_ of harming y/n, I will kill you."

"Noted," Gabriel muttered, glancing towards his flask, dark amber contents soaking into the sun-warmed earth between their boots. His lips twitched, plastering on a smile. "Could you at least let me finish _before_ threatening to stick me with the sharp end?"

Michael didn't let up. Instead, he repeated the action, giving a pointed look with raised brows. "Are you in agreement, then?"

"Since you have such an _unhealthy obsession_ with these humans," Gabriel then rocked back on his heels, grin twisting as he chewed his bottom lip. His body language indicated indecisiveness, but _something_ reluctantly won over. Hooking his thumbs on his belt, his cheeks blew outwards. "Yes. I suppose." Wings manifesting, they flapped once or twice, stirring debris into a small tornado. 

Satisfied, Michael withdrew, launching himself from bent knees. Assisted by updrafts, he spiralled higher, blending in with the silver-speckled evening sky. Gabriel followed suit after a short sprint, powerful wingbeats letting him catch up. 


	2. No Rest For The Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has struck an uneasy alliance with Gabriel in search of y/n. Meanwhile, the eight-balls treat you with their own brand of hospitality.

_You had always been inexplicably drawn to the water._

_Gentle pitching and bobbing from underneath brought back distant, yet pleasant, memories. The way smaller waves playfully tickled waggling toes, larger ones rolling in to kiss the surf. Of lazy, sun-scorched afternoons by the shore with fishing poles betwixt foldable chairs. Of firefly-lit nights by bonfires, clothes smelling of salty brine, and fingers covered in sticky, sugary residue._

_Except, you **weren't** moving of your own accord. The swaying became rougher, choppier, jostling you about like a ragdoll._

_Unable to look away, your memories morphed into nightmarish apparitions. The joyful, relaxed faces of your friends and family peeled apart to reveal gnashing jaws. Lips drawn to show eroded teeth set in oozing gums, enamel shorn away. Gone were warm blues and rich browns, replaced by vortices of darkness. Gooseflesh-inducing screams and cries sounded far off, echoing dins that bounced around your skull._

_T_ _his wasn't real!_  


  
_**This wasn't real!** _   


  
**_THIS WASN'T REAL!_ **

  
_Searing heat overcame your senses. It felt like you were standing in the center of a mushroom cloud. Flames hungrily devoured your clothing, leaving you bare as a newborn. Sirens wailed and dozens more panicked voices rose in unison. Suddenly, a pair of magnificent, pearly wings burst from your shoulderblades. One by one the others began to liquefy in the blazing onslaught, flesh coming off._   
_A dry, rasping voice wound into your ear, wrapping about your shoulders like a weighted shroud. The sickeningly sweet stench of mildew and honeysuckle pressed in around you. Those wings grew, and grew, blocking out all light._

  
**_"Y/N, be not afraid."_ **

* * *

"This meatbag stinks of grace." Bherus whinged nasally, revealing two rows of shark-teeth. His gut was distended, greasy tank top rolling up. Scratching beneath a mesh baseball hat, his nails came away packed with dirt and other unsavory things.

"Won't matter," His partner, Struhog, argued back, showing his own in warning. He was dressed as a low-ranking soldier, camouflage uniform covered in questionable stains. "They got a connection to the higher ups. And—"

  
"...to who?" 

  
_Sometimes, just sometimes, it would help if Bherus were smarter than a bag of turnips._

  
"...Michael and Gabriel." This drew a blank stare from Bherus. Struhog growled, dashing the trucker's head against the bench. _He swore he could hear his walnut of a brain rattling around._ "Dhi'agismu Mikha'el and Gavri'el!" 

"Ow! Why not lishepus first?"

 _Because you're an idiot_ , he wanted to snarl. "Because you didn't hear first time."

From the floor, y/n gave a weak groan, startling both guards. Bloodied, dazed, and severely disoriented, your gaze came to rest on a pair of boots. Strangely enough, crisp socks could be seen beneath a green cuff. The strings were dangling from a poorly-tied knot, childish designs scribbled in crayon. _Crayon? Who the hell had art supplies in the middle of the apocalypse?_

Your head throbbed, aching as if someone had driven white-hot nails in. Not to mention your bloodied mouth. Copper tainted your tastebuds, harsh and metallic. Jaw knocking against solid metal when your surroundings pitched, you spat fresh flecks that fell like warm rain. Your fingers twitched spasmodically, thick fibers of twine - or were they zip-ties? - keeping your shoulders forced back and chest forward. 

_You were alive. Your heart was beating. You were breathing. Your hands were **not free** , unfortunately._

Wriggling into a sitting position proved much harder than you realized, especially when your legs were asleep. Stopping as dark spots swam in your peripheral, only then did you notice that you weren't alone. A face loomed inches away, demonic. Peeling lips drew tight over shards of sharpened yellow teeth, claws scraping painfully at your scalp as they wrenched you upwards. 

_Eight-balls._

"Oy! Struhog! This one's awake!" A female eight-ball exclaimed, matted hair woven with small skulls and cheap plastic beads. Struhog grinned, mouth taking the shape of a ghastly anglerfish maw.

"Give 'em taste of home cookin', then!"

The stench of charred flesh and singed hair caused your gut to flip. Vaguely your meal took the shape of a foul, partially-chewed rodent. _If this is what those outside the walls ate, then you wouldn't complain about rations ever again._ It was thrust towards you, meaty chunks dangling and an eye socket crawling with _\- were those maggots!?_

"Go'on, eat up! Yer gonna need it!" _As if._

Lifting plastic-wrapped wrists, your fingers closed on the stick. _Reluctantly._ Maggots squirmed, dropping to your pants and shoes. Bright red-orange eyes watched with an unnervingly hideous curiosity. Inky veins embossed the body, cutting through wicked tattoos. Another picked their teeth with a rat's leg-bone. 

_Thinking you were an airheaded citydweller was their **first mistake**. _

_The **second** was underestimating you. _

_You were not going out the way countless others had. You were of Vega, of house Whele, a lion in mind and body._

Several things happened at once. You lunged. The truck hit a rough road-patch. And then, chaos. 

The leader - _who you assumed_ \- let out a guttural, wild-hog screech. Blood sprayed, socket skewered and gushing profusely. Tightening the lock, you drew back your arms to your hips and stomach in a quick thrust motion. It snapped, stinging. Your teeth made short work of what was left, free to grab a weapon or - 

_Right. Legs still._

As the front jerked, the back followed momentum's pull. You tumbled with the lower angels, sliding over smooth, cold flooring. Back meeting nail-studded wood, you ignored the pain. Everywhere else, the eight-balls began to stir from unconsciousness. Groaning and growling in lishepus over their comrade's idiocy. 

_Now was the better time to move your ass. They were distracted!_

The next moment's snap had you grinning, discarding halves. _Keeping a relic from the old-world had come in handy._ Clawed nails grasped pant-legs as you stood. _Newborn-weak, pins and needles rampant_. With a grimace, you used flatbed seating to guide toward yawning light. 

**Author's Note:**

> And, for the low, low, price of nothing, I give you this: a very lovely reminder to leave a comment and kudos! ❤


End file.
